


Landing Is The Hardest Part Of Flying

by geckoholic



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Mission Fic, Multi, Pre-Poly, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-03 06:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13335015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: Illya and Solo swing back and forth between silence and big, showy arguments the whole drive, and by the time they leave Berlin, and thus the Western Bloc, to weave their way into Potsdam through back roads and rat runs, she's annoyed enough that her nerves are only fluttering a little.





	Landing Is The Hardest Part Of Flying

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zarabithia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/gifts).



> You said in your letter you enjoyed spy things for these three. You should maybe not have said that. :P Also, two notes: 1) there's a scene here where they get drunk, but no one has sex or makes out with anyone while intoxicated so I super hope that's still okay, and 2) this is more, like, pre-poly and setting things up than full on poly. I can confirm they're fully intended to arrive there eventually, though. ;)
> 
> Beta-read by shenshen77 and beta-lactamase. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Resume" by Val Emmich.

They leave Instanbul by train. Tickets purchased in cash and anonymously, whereas flights are traceable – it's a safety measure, Waverly explains. Gaby rather just thinks he's being stingy. She doesn't like it, feels caged, stuck, but the boys are being suspicious enough to deliver some comfort. They keep patrolling past their compartment like it's a contest and the first to catch an enemy agent sniffing around after them, or any other kind of shady character, will get a prize. She’s not sure whether she hopes everything will eventually cease to be a competition between them, or hopes it will never stop. It's highly entertaining, if nothing else.

Right now it's Solo's turn. He marched off in direction of the food wagon ten minutes ago, for the third time in two hours, and Gaby doesn't expect him to _actually_ bring back anything edible on this go-around either. Which is a shame; she is getting a bit peckish. Maybe she'll call him on his nonsense when he trots off again, ask him to get her a sandwich or some pastries or whatever they sell there.

Illya is sitting across from her, nose in a Russian tome of considerable size, although she hasn't seen him turn the page in at least fifteen minutes. His posture is looking stiff and uncomfortable, and he keeps sneaking glances at her, and Gaby decides it's time for a little experiment. She's bored. He's way too tense.

She digs around in her bag until she unearths the bright baby blue nail polish she bought off a street vendor in Istanbul. It's cheap and will likely chip within hours, but that's nowhere near the point. She toes off her shoes and puts one leg up on the seat, up against the armrest near the window. She knows it'll make her skirt ride up. She doesn't have any intention to smooth it back down.

Predictably, Illya's next glance towards her gets redirected to her thigh, now showing significantly more bare skin than before. He swallows. His gaze flickers up to her eyes, then away. He licks his lips, but doesn't say anything.

Doing her nails is a five minute task to Gaby at this point – she may have been a girl from the _Ostzone_ , working with her hands, but she did live in Berlin, she has _some_ taste, and she has always been resourceful – and she quickly moves on to the other foot, shifting a little, doesn't miss how he looks her way again and takes a deep breath before he goes back to not-reading his book.

Gaby leans forward and wriggles her toes, decides he needs more direct prompting. “Do you like the color?”

In an instant, Illya sits up straight and moves from surreptitious glances to a full, deer-in-the-headlights stare. “Uhh. Yes?”

“This isn't a quiz, there are no wrong answers,” Gaby admonishes, then leans back on her elbows. “Do you like it or not?”

He swallows again, but, fearless deadly spy that he is, manages to hold her gaze. “I do. It compliments your skin tone.”

She was half hoping for a comparison to her eyes, but eh, he's still learning. Also, he's not Solo, which is definitely a point in his favor even if it makes his flirting a lot more heavy-handed.

Gaby smiles, pleased, maybe a touch too wide. “Thank you.”

Illya smiles back and, apparently thinking the moment is over, goes back to his book. Gaby uses the lapse in attention to rise from her seat and flop down next to him. She's about to curl her arm around his and ask him what he's reading, maybe even lay it on thick and inquire as to whether he'd be willing to teach her to read in Russian, when the compartment door springs open.

Solo stands in the door, grinning, wide and excited. “I think I have found someone suspicious. I locked him in the restroom.”

Illya is up like a shot, never one to miss the opportunity to channel his awkwardness into some government-sanctioned violence, and Gaby is left behind, sighing, while they go to investigate Solo's quarry. Knowing his luck, it might even be an arms dealer wanted in at least three to five different countries or something similar and get him a commendation, rather than the formal reprimand they'd get for unduly bothering a civilian. Either way, the boys will have to deal with him alone.

Her nail polish hasn't even fully dried yet.

 

***

 

They arrive in London two days later. Solo declares that he's going on a stroll around the city first thing, after hardly having set down his suitcase, and it's a burning desire to see as much of London as she can that makes Gaby hook her arm in with his and declare that she's going to join him. Despite being recruited for the British government, Gaby has never been here before, and she suspects their stay here won't last long – no time to waste. Illya's eyebrow twitches in response, but it seems his protectiveness wins over his distaste for Solo's company. She suspects it's not so much that they do, in fact, still share a mutual dislike, but haven't yet worked out how to tolerate one another for extended stretches of time. They need breaks, or someone will end up with a black eye or a fork in the back of their hand.

“Off we go, then,” Solo says, patting her arm, and grins at Illya, whose eyebrow twitches a little harder. Gaby rolls her eyes and nudges Solo out of the room.

It does, however, turn out that he's a halfway useful tourist guide. She doesn't ask when he got to know the city so well, assumes it was during the war and that she therefore won't get a straight answer out of him anyway. She listens to him as he points out buildings they pass and drops anecdotes about their history instead. Much like Illya did in Italy, it occurs to her, and Gaby smiles to herself. One of these days, she'll present them with a carefully curated list of how alike they actually are, then she'll lean back and watch them get indignant and huff and puff while they argue that they have _nothing_ in common.

Hours fly by in which Solo manages to hardly be annoying at all, and they end up on a bench by the Thames, one of those old ones from the movies, and watch the sun set over the river. He leans in, and she half-expects a cheap come-on, an attempt at a kiss, although she'd thought by now they'd have gotten past that.

But he does nothing of the sort. “You're not playing with him, are you?”

Gaby cocks her head. “Careful there, that almost sounded like concern.”

He frowns. “I simply have no desire to console a giant heap of Russian misery when he realizes you're not as serious about this as he is.”

“I don't know what you're talking ab– “ she starts, but he waves a hand.

“Oh please, I read people for a living,” Solo says, looking out over the river. “He's head over heels for you, did you really not see that yet? And you... be sure before you let it go anywhere, is all I'm saying.”

She can't parse the look he gives her then, and so she opts to deflect, to go with a joke. “What is it, Napoleon, are you feeling left out?”

He clicks his tongue at her use of his first name, pulls at her to get up, and nods his head in the direction they came from, the direction of the hotel. “I tend to get invited to all the parties I want to attend,” he says, smug as they come, and laughs when Gaby elbows him in the ribs.

 

***

 

Waverly calls them in the next morning and hands them packages of files they're under strict orders not to open – the latter with a pointed glance at Solo – and informs them their next mission will be to safely deliver it to the allied military liaison mission in Potsdam. Gaby swallows down a complaint; she'd somehow hoped she'd seen the last of the DDR, but that might have been foolish. It's where a lot of threads for the joint interests of their employers tangle, after all, and German is her native language. Not sending them back there now and again would be a waste of resources, and intelligence organizations, whether they're British, American, or Russian, tend not to be wasteful like that. Plus, it's stupid. Connected to the Liaison, they're practically owed diplomatic immunity. It's not like she's reentering DDR territory as a fugitive from the Eastern Bloc.

As soon as they're out on the street, Solo marching ahead, she feels Illya's hand on the small of her back. She does recognize that particular gesture – it's an attempt at comfort, and she's stupidly grateful, even while she's scolding herself for being so transparent. In fact, they both swing back and forth between silence and big, showy arguments the whole drive, and by the time they leave Berlin, and thus the Western Bloc, to weave their way into Potsdam through back roads and rat runs, she's annoyed enough that her nerves are only fluttering a little.

The officer on duty at the gate gives them a bored glance, reads the little note that Waverly attached for the commander of the Intelligence Corps and accompanies them to an office at the end of a wide hallway, bathed in light from high windows to one side. They're made to wait while he announces their arrival, and then told to enter.

The commander unpacks the files, skimming through them, and lets out a breath. “So they did it again.” Solo opens his mouth, presumably to ask what precisely _it_ is, but he's cut off with a wave of the commander's hand before he can get the first syllable out. “I guess the brass expects me to send its carrier pigeons right back on home, but half my men have the flu and we're understaffed. How'd you like to carry out a prisoner transfer tomorrow night?”

Judging from his tone and the glare he gives all three of them in turn, it doesn't really sound much like a question. That's the reason why Gaby, when Illya turns out to be the first to find his voice, doesn't resolve to hate him for the rest of their shared existence.

He stands up straighter and salutes. “Gladly, Sir.”

The commander hands them back the files, rattles off a few instructions, and dismisses them with a curt nod. Gaby, for her part, decides before the door has even fallen closed behind them that she cannot, and will not, spend the time they have to kill here in Potsdam sober.

Upon her suggestion to that effect, as soon as they've claimed their hastily assigned shared quarters, Solo grins like Christmas morning and makes her promise she'll introduce him to the best German beer available. Illya grumbles something in Russian, seemingly less than enthused about getting hammered on the job, but it appears he's even more daunted by the prospect of letting them get hammered _alone_ because he does not, in fact, stay behind when they set out into Potsdam proper.

Solo does get his promised beaker of black beer, but then they unanimously move on to high-proof herbal liquor. The bar Gaby found them is small, dark, stinks of old wood and spilled alcohol, and the waitress doesn't ask any questions as to why they're talking in a wild mix of three languages after the third round. Illya's command of the English language is slipping as much as Gaby's does, and she makes a mental note to tease him about that tomorrow; weren't Russians supposed to hold their liquor better? For the moment, though, she's too fascinated by his angry rant about... she can't even work it out. He's clearly indignant about something, but there's too much Russian and not enough English in there for her to make heads and tails of it. Or maybe she just can't cobble enough of her vocabulary in the latter together anymore – no, that's not it. Solo looks as lost as she does, and yet heavily amused. She's sandwiched between them, and he shares a conspiratorial glance with her, winking.

Right then and there, to her eternal horror, Gaby is struck by the sudden realization of just how _attractive_ he is. Well. Both of them, actually, because looking away and turning her sole attention back to Illya yields a similar result, the reminder sending a similar wave of heat through her belly.

The next round, Gaby orders water. She goes to the bar to do so, and upon her return, she safely seats herself in the booth across, rather than back between them. It doesn’t eliminate the effect, but it makes it manageable for the moment. She’ll think about this more when she’s sober, or maybe, preferably, not at all.

 

***

 

In the morning, Gaby wakes in an unfamiliar room, half underneath and half above the duvet, and her heart starts racing before her brain has the opportunity to remember it as her quarter at the mission. She’s in Potsdam, but she’s supposed to be here. Illya and Solo are just next door. Everything’s fine. Well, everything except for her pounding headache and the stale taste of alcohol and regrets that clings to the dry lump in her throat. But she can recall most of the previous night, and she woke up alone. That’s an upside. It could have been so much worse.

She disentangles herself and gets dressed in a hurry. She checks herself over in the naked mirror hanging over a sink by the bed, and haphazardly wipes the rest of last night's makeup off her face with a wet paper towel. Then she goes to stretch her legs, maybe take a walk outside.

Right outside, she's welcomed by a man about her age, wearing civvies, leaning by the door with one foot braced against the wall. “I thought the three of you might have succumbed to alcohol poisoning overnight.”

Gaby juts her chin out. “And I don't see how that's any of your business.”

“I'm assigned to your prisoner exchange tonight,” he says, the tone stern and disdainful, but she's pretty positive there's a smile tugging at the corners of his lips regardless. “So if you're still halfway drunk when we go swap with the Russians later, that's very much my business.”

She sighs. She feels her headache getting worse. She really needs to get that atrocious taste out of her mouth. “We'll be fine. Give us each a hot shower and about two liters of coffee and we'll be good as new.”

The smile wins out now, and he extends a hand. “Frank Miller. Nice to meet you.”

“Gaby Teller,” she says, taking it. “It's my pleasure.”

Frank turns to face her fully, looking her up and down, all slow, and he's just about done with that once-over when the door opens and Solo emerges from his room, hair tussled, wearing only his dress slacks and nothing else. He hefts an eyebrow but doesn't comment, just marches past them with a lazy grin, scratching the skin just below his waistband and being entirely obvious about having caught her moment of weakness the night before. He also doesn’t look at all hungover, that asshole, and Gaby allows herself a moment of plotting bloody murder before she mumbles an apology at Frank and flees back into her room. 

 

***

 

The drive to the bridge where the exchange takes place isn't all that long, but to Gaby it nevertheless feels a bit like an awkward family trip. Or, not family exactly – those school trips in later years where you have far too much history with half the people on the bus, and don't feel comfortable yet with the newcomer in class, and somehow everyone's got a gripe with everyone and you missed out on what happened to get them there. 

She sits in front of the old Opel Kapitän with Frank – because no one with manners makes a lady squeeze into the backseat, he'd said, smiling, at which Illya had grunted and glared – and can practically feel two sets of eyes bore into her back as she's regaled with a short history on prisoner exchanges between allied spies. Apparently he has done quite a few, and all on the same bridge, a border checkpoint about halfway between Potsdam and Berlin. They make a bit of a detour, pushing into Western territory to pick up the actual prisoners, and it's dark by the time they're all settled up by the checkpoint, accompanying two captured KBG spies who keep cursing at Illya in Russian. 

The whole thing is a bit cliche, under the shadow of the night and with a slight fog rising up from the river, and Gaby couldn't say whether the chill that's creeping up her spine is nerves or excitement. There's no reason for either; everything goes smoothly, and about twenty minutes later they're back in the car with a woman named Heike, a member of the Western Germany intelligence service that was undercover in the DDR and got captured due to a leak in their organization. Gaby gulps a bit at the thought. She knows their circumstances aren't the same, but... god, she can't wait to leave Germany in the rear view mirror once again. 

The unease stays with her, and even though it's horrendously stupid for any spy to miss out on a few hours of uninterrupted sleep when given the chance, Gaby doesn't retire to her room. She puts on a pot of coffee in the mess hall and stares at her cup, the plain painted walls, and the darkness between the large windows in turn. She isn't alone for long, however – after maybe half an hour, Heike pads into the mess hall, takes a second cup from the rows behind the coffee machine, and plops down in the chair opposite Gaby. 

“You're an odd team,” Heike says. “Three countries, two men and a woman. It's... unconventional.” 

That's a big word to throw around in their line of work, where conventions are what normal people get to hide behind, but Gaby refrains from pointing that out. She shrugs her shoulders. “We sort of happened upon each other.” 

“Did you, now,” Heike replies, and the tone indicates she means to take a turn towards scandalous. Gaby wants to set the record straight, of course not, they're a _team_ and nothing else, but... it's amazing how one day can change one's perspective, sometimes. Besides, Heike looks haggard and pale, and if this conversation serves to her as distraction from being hours out of solitary in a DDR prison – all traitors get solitary, it's a widely-known horror story – then Gaby isn't going to take that from her. 

“They're a constant bother, both of them, but they sure are easy on the eyes,” she says with a conspiratorial smirk, and Heike puts her hand over her mouth and giggles. 

Gaby props her chin up on one hand and stares out of the window some more, and if her mind wanders towards Illya's gentle reassuring touches and the mental photograph of Solo in his slacks and nothing else, then well, it's at least better than ruminating on prison and solitary confinement and all the other things Heike had to endure and Gaby, miraculously, managed to avoid. 

 

***

 

The commander sends them off the next day with a quick thanks and a communique from Waverly, informing them that their new assignment is waiting for them in Paris and that they are to board a military transport in Berlin. The journey is uneventful, not least of all because the lack of sleep from the night before catches up with Gaby about fifteen minutes in, tucked in safely against Illya's shoulder, and she doesn't resurface at all until Solo shakes her awake at the airport in Paris. 

He slips out of the cabin, handing their luggage off to someone outside the plane, and Gaby seizes the chance to reach up, haul Illya down to her, and slowly press their lips together. He smiles at her, after the kiss, warm and fond and yet always a little bit surprised, and she doesn't notice Solo's return until he loudly clears his throat. 

“This isn't a private party, is it?” he asks, holding her gaze, and it takes her back to London, takes her back to the benches by the Thames. 

Gaby hums thoughtfully. She can't answer for them both, obviously, not yet, but she understands what's being asked and she means it when she replies, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

**Author's Note:**

> I will admit my inner history geek ran away with me for this one, and that I found a three-part-documentary on TV about the joined intelligence operations in the DDR did not help matters any. The [Military Liaison Missions](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Military_liaison_missions) in Potsdam really did exist, so does the [Bridge Of Spies](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glienicke_Bridge) between Berlin and Potsdam, and the referenced [leak in the BND](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heinz_Felfe#Arrest_and_trial) also happened. I JUST. HISTORY. ♥
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com).


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